


heaven's a distance not a place

by spirograph



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-12-14
Updated: 2006-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-31 11:57:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,902
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/343781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spirograph/pseuds/spirograph
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s the reality that it can’t last forever, that at some point the world of children’s programming isn’t going to want them anymore. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when that day comes and longs for the language to describe how he awful it feels. But Sam’s always been the one who’s good with words and Mark’s just the gimp with a bad accent who always messes up his lines.</p>
            </blockquote>





	heaven's a distance not a place

01\. 

Mark opens his eyes and squints against the dark. He can’t tell what time it is but he has a feeling that it’s earlier rather than later; in the backwards sense that it’s morning, not night. 

Everything is fuzzy - blackness outlined in black - but he can easily distinguish Sam’s face across the great divide of their bunks; he’s awake, but only just. They make eye contact as well as they can, both with half their face pressed into the pillow. Through the haze of sleep he can make out Sam’s lips curving into a smile, his one visible eye crinkling slightly at the corner. 

Helen sighs in her sleep and the mobile fan clicks and whirs just outside the bedroom door, stuttering as it tries to send cooler air their way. Neither of them has to say anything. Sam’s got his blankets bunched up at his side, t-shirt off and probably in a puddle on the floor. It’s too hot to sleep in summer, especially on the top bunks, even with the fan on. Sam’s hair looks a bit like it’s matted to his forehead. 

Mark yawns, and if it were daytime Sam would call him a flytrap. Mark would probably let him, too. Because, well. Bright eyed and laughing, he’s Sam: his overzealous, frequently smelly best friend who leaves the cornflakes open then puts them back in the pantry so they go stale too quickly; hiding behind his hand, he’s Sam: who laughs at Mark’s accent when his own is equally as ridiculous; pupils dilated, he’s Sam: who knows when Ed and Helen are deep enough asleep, throws off his blankets and clambers across the bunks. Mark watches him bridging the gap awkwardly with his legs, falling sideways on top of him with an ‘oof’ that reverberates through his chest. 

“Nngh, you’re heavy,” Mark murmurs against the back of Sam’s head, wriggling his arm out from under his torso. 

Sam turns around and presses his nose against Mark’s chest, mumbling something that sounds like _I am not._ Mark nuzzles his face against Sam’s hair, breathes deeply the smell of fruity shampoo and a familiar scent that is totally indescribable but undeniably _Sam._ Mark’s never quite sure how far they will go, even as Sam’s easing his hand underneath Mark’s shirt, fingers splayed out over his hip. They turn the cameras off at 10pm most nights and Mark finds himself endlessly thanking his lucky stars – he can’t imagine trying to explain this to a room full of executives. He can’t even figure it out himself. 

Ed snorts loudly from somewhere to the left and Sam giggles soundlessly against Mark’s shirt, body vibrating until the temperature in the room rises up a notch. “’s too hot,” Mark grumbles. 

Sam tugs sleepily at the hem of his shirt, “take it off?” Mark hesitates, wondering if that’s really such a good plan with their co-workers in the bunks below. He decides he doesn’t really care, what with his body slowly but surely _melting_ from the waves of heat Sam’s body is creating. The shirt peels away from his body and he tucks it under his pillow for later. “’s better,” Sam sighs, breath only a touch cooler than the air around them as it hits Mark’s skin. Sam rolls away from him to face his own bunk, reaching behind himself a moment later to grab onto Mark’s arm and pull it around his waist, patting the back of his hand gently once it’s resting on his stomach. Mark buries his face against the unruly tuft of hair at the back of Sam’s head, allowing himself to relax, nudging his knee forward ever-so-slightly between Sam’s legs. The bunks are small and it’s a tight fit, even for them. Sam exhales and leans back. After a while Mark isn’t sure which heartbeat is his own, but in the end he decides it doesn’t really matter. 

He wakes up with a dead arm and the 7am alarm going off. There’s an incoherent protest from beside him and Sam elbows him in the stomach. “Watch it!” Mark huffs, trying to reclaim his arm, instead finding himself with a face full of squinty-eyed Sam who groggily slurs out, “Morning, sunshine.” 

“Ugh, morning breath,” Mark groans, pushing his palm against Sam’s face. 

For a second Sam looks scandalized, then cups his own hand in front of his face, puffing out quickly and trying to inhale his own breath like it’s a successful test. “There’s nothing wrong with it.” 

Mark doesn’t even bother trying to convince him otherwise, still trying unsuccessfully to regain the feeling in his arm. 

From down the hallway Ed calls out, “Cameras are back on in five, guys.” 

Mark twists free and reaches out to slam his hand down on the alarm clock that's convulsing all over the dresser by their feet. He crosses his legs Indian style and drags a hand over his face. Idly he hopes at least one box of cornflakes is still okay to eat. He can’t remember if they bought any milk. Sam pushes the arch of his foot against Mark’s kneecap, “Hello.” 

Mark looks at him sideways, mistaking the bubble of warmth in his chest for the beginnings of hunger pains, “Hi.” 

Sam narrows his eyes. “You’ve got pillow lines all over your face.” 

Mark covers his cheeks with his hands and groans.

 

02\. 

Mark comes home from seeing his friends on a Thursday night to find Sam, a usually hyperactive ball of energy, curled up on his bad boy chair and fast asleep in front of the television. Helen and Ed are nowhere to be seen and Sam’s bent right in on himself, knees pulled up and arms folded over his chest, potato chip crumbs scattered all over the blanket by his feet. Mark’s torn between leaving him be and jumping on top of him cruelly to startle him awake. He means to walk away, but ends up sliding himself onto the arm rest of the chair. Sam shifts, pulls himself tighter into a ball. “Sam?”, there’s a slight flickering of eyelashes. Mark tries again, “Hey, Sam?” 

Sam’s eyes crack open. “You’re home late,” he mumbles, tongue swiping out over his lips. 

Mark glances down at his wrist watch then back up at Sam’s drowsy face, “It’s only 9pm.” There’s a muffled “pffft’ as Sam’s head lolls toward the back of the seat, features creating crinkled dents in the leather. A blonde girl on the telly starts trying to sell them something. Mark goes to the kitchen, less than five easy strides, puts the kettle on as quietly as he can. 

“I’ll have one,” Sam says, peering over the top of his chair, hair wild on one side and totally flat on the other. “Is it really only nine?” He hauls himself up and rearranges his clothes - blue striped pajama pants (didn’t Helen put those in the wash this morning?) and a white t-shirt – with an awkward half-asleep sway to the side. 

“Yes, see,” Mark points at the digital oven clock, “How long have you been sleeping?” 

Sam balances on his tiptoes and grabs the tin of teabags off the top cabinet shelf ,throws one in each of the cups Mark’s pulled out of the dishwasher, “Um, a while.” He leans heavily against the countertop and sighs. 

“You ‘right?” 

Sam fakes a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes, “Course, you?”

“Yeah.” 

Silence. The kettle whistles, projecting a bloom of white steam into the air. Enough time passes that it starts to become uncomfortable. Sam sips his tea slowly, “Have fun out?” 

“Yeah, it was okay,” Mark pours more milk into his cup, watches Sam’s eyes looking everywhere but at him, lips pursed into something akin to a pout. Mark grins, “Sam, are you _jealous?_ ” 

“What? _No._ Why would I be? Ugh, god. I’m going to bed,” he says quickly, pouring his tea down the sink and walking off. Mark resists the urge to laugh out loud.

Standing at the doorway of their bedroom, he says, “You could have come along.” 

Sam makes a weird, strangled noise into his pillow then huffs, “Could you keep it down, some of us are trying to sleep.” Mark throws his hands up, defeated, and goes back to the kitchen. 

He gets into bed an hour later and Sam whispers, “I can’t sleep, now.” Mark thinks he sounds embarrassed. 

Mark says, “That’s not my fault,” and rolls onto his side, facing toward the other wall, pretending he doesn’t hear when Sam’s breath hitches, a little bit like misery might be caught in his throat. 

03\. 

Autumn isn’t so bad. They turn up the thermostat and wrap thick woolen scarves around their necks despite the overcast sun. It tries its best, but in the end grey clouds cover the sky as far as Mark can see. Sam says, teeth chattering, “Hot chocolate! In a bucket!”, as he falls through the door with a bag of groceries. 

Not long after that Sam gets the flu. He’s a pathetic, sniffly mess, wrapped up in brightly coloured mink blankets, for a whole five days. Mark makes him endless cups of tea and cocoa, force feeding him painkillers to stop his headaches from getting too bad. Sam coughs, buries his face in a tissue and looks as though he’s about to cry. “Mark,” he croaks, “Every part of my body hurts,” and he’s more dejected than Mark’s ever seen him. Mark puts another blanket on top of him, “Think you’ll live?” 

Sam’s eyes go unfocused for a bit, then he throws a scrunched up snotty tissue in Mark’s general direction, although it doesn’t go anywhere near him at all, “Only if you don’t leave me.” He sounds pretty sincere, and his eyes are a little pleading, so Mark cancels his other plans and sits on the floor by his feet until his butt is numb and he’s sure his brain is turning into goo from too much television. 

Two weeks later their roles are reversed and Mark can’t remember ever feeling so rubbish. “I feel a million degrees,” he tells Sam, who is beside the sink soaking a flannel in cold water. He sneezes and let’s Sam know his brain almost escaped through his nose with that one. The camera’s are still on and he’s dreading the TMi showcase of their collective lameness. 

Sam says, “Go to sleep, you look awful.” 

Mark tries to say, “but you love me anyway,” frustrated when it all comes out jumbled and stupid. Sam puts the damp flannel on Mark’s forehead, and his chin is resting on the edge of the sofa when he whispers, “of course I do, you great twit.” 

04.

Sam presses his face against the window of their kitchen door while Mark’s trying to make toasted sandwiches. There’s frost building up at the corners of the glass and Ed says, “Someone’s trying to get your attention,” waggling his eyebrows toward the door. Mark grins, he can’t help himself, and brushes the excess crumbs off the bench and into the sink. Hands on either side of the glass he puckers his lips and kisses the flat circle of Sam’s cheek. He can hear Sam giggling on the other side. Ed mutters something that sounds suspiciously like ‘get a room.’ Helen sighs and goes back to her book as Sam shuffles inside away from the cold. 

In the end it’s Ed’s thighs that Sam sits on because there aren’t enough chairs around the table, bouncing up and down like a 5 year old and stuffing his face with squares of toasted bread, threads of melted cheese tangled all over his fingers. 

Mark hates himself for being jealous, but it’s hard to deny it when he’s practically seething through mouthfuls of food. It’s not like Sam is exclusively his, he never has been, probably never will be. They’re just best friends, and everybody loves Sam Nixon. 

Ed says, “Sam, you’re breaking my legs.” 

Sam steals the last half of Mark’s sandwich and takes a huge bite as he walks past, dodging Mark’s hand as it swats out to smack him on the arm. Sam giggles a little manically and Mark wonders if they’ll ever grow up. There’s an ache in the pit of his stomach, then; it’s a culmination of fear and self pity and a little bit of a feeling like he wishes they’d never met. It’s the reality that it can’t last forever, that at some point the world of children’s programming isn’t going to want them anymore. He doesn’t know what he’ll do when that day comes and longs for the language to describe how he awful it feels. But Sam’s always been the one who’s good with words, and Mark’s just the gimp with a bad accent who always messes up his lines. 

05

Mark hasn’t had a proper relationship since Zoe. She’d been perfect, all bouncing curls and wide-eyed grins that stretched for miles. He’d slid the engagement ring on her finger and honestly believed they’d be together forever. She’d hated Sam straight away, turning up her nose whenever Mark suggested they all hang out together. Sam was nothing but nice to her- it took a lot to make Sam Nixon harbour a dislike for someone. 

“He’s all you ever talk about,” she’d said in the end. It had been weird not having her around, soft laughter echoing through the house, but Sam had turned up (face full of sympathy and an edge of badly concealed anger), and he’d filled up the spaces Zoe had left behind without any effort at all. Sam never told him that it would all be okay and never acted as if Mark was surrounded by a thin bed of eggshells, either.

“I don’t think I’m as sad as I should be,” Mark had whispered, eventually, tracing the paint cracks on the bedroom ceiling with his eyes, surrounded by empty boxes of Chinese takeout and broken chopsticks. Beside him Sam hadn’t said a word, just turned toward him with a look on his face like he understood, as if he’d known the truth all along. 

 

06.

It doesn’t take Mark long to realize it’s an undeniable crush of epic proportions. It’s living in the flat and the close proximity that’s done it; it’s pre-scripted on-air kisses and picking Sam up in his arms, his legs wrapped around Mark’s waist, and feeling the heat of Sam's body through his clothes, against his palms. He wonders how long it’s been this way, how long he’s been pining for his best friend in the whole world to just turn around and say, “Mark Rhodes, let’s snog”, and have it be for real, no cameras, no co-workers, nothing; just them. _Probably forever_ , he thinks sadly, watching Sam contort himself into an archway so Ed can putt a golf ball underneath. Mark doesn’t even know what game they’re playing anymore, the rules are all conflicting and he’s utterly transfixed by the spectacle of Sam Nixon rolling around on the floor like a lunatic. 

Sam says, “Mark, it’s your turn!” and arches up again, t-shirt sliding down so it’s bunching beneath his armpits. It’s an enormously easy goal to score, but Mark misses anyway, sending Sam into convulsive fits of laughter. Mark would probably be annoyed if Sam’s laughter wasn’t so contagious, echoing through his head and triggering his own uncontrollably bout of giggles. It’s really not that funny as Ed grumpily points out. It’s too much sugar and not nearly enough sleep, both combined with being all boxed up in the same three rooms every day for week upon week upon week. By the time Ed tells them to pull themselves together there are tears streaming down both of their faces. Mark’s pretty sure they’ve forgotten what was so hilarious in the first place. It doesn’t really matter, he concludes, with Sam’s head resting on his shoulder, hiccupping out soft giggles now and then. “You suck at this game,” Sam says. 

Mark shrugs, “I don’t even know what game we’re playing.” Sam bursts out laughing again. 

Ed shakes his head and waves a dismissive hand at them, wandering off toward the bedroom. 

 

06.

They slob around the flat on a Sunday because it’s their designated day off. It’s not a day off though, really, not when Ed’s still around for most of it, trying to think up pranks to pull during next weeks show, and Helen’s yelling down the phone at her boyfriend about this and that, everything and nothing at all. It’s such moments that helpfully remind Mark that real life isn’t anything at all like a children’s television program, as much as he’d like it to be. 

Sam flings himself over the back of his bad boy chair, arms dangling limply in front of him. “Mark, I’m bored.” 

“How can you be bored? We’ve a flat full of games.” Mark turns the volume on the telly up another notch. 

“But it’s not as much fun on m’own.” Sam starts sliding backward until his chin is resting on the back of the seat, eyes puppy-dog wide and begging for Mark’s attention. 

Mark doesn’t even turn his head, he knows the exact expression Sam’s wearing, just one look and he knows he’ll give in. His heart beats out of time. “Go find Ed.” Sam sighs dramatically and walks off. 

A few minutes later Mark hears the sneaky-but-not-sneaky-enough footfalls approaching and holds his breath as Sam catapults himself onto his lap. Mark yells, “Argh!” and the TV remote clatters to the floor, batteries spilling out across the wooden floor, “Idiot!”

Sam laughs, whole body shaking, “I found a [koosh ball](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Koosh_ball)!” and throws the bundle of plastic rainbow threads at Mark’s forehead. 

Mark rolls his eyes, “You’re so annoying.” 

“But you love me,” Sam bats his eyelashes and Mark pushes him away. He lands on the floor with a dull thud. 

“That hurt!” Sam complains, throwing the koosh at Mark’s chest. 

They end up on the floor, Mark’s thighs on either side of Sam’s hips, tickling him until he’s begging Mark to _stop, please god, stop_ , arching up off the floor and twisting hopelessly from side to side. 

Puffed and overheating Mark finally stops his attack. Sitting back on Sam’s thighs he looks toward the TV to see the credits rolling. “I’ve missed me show because of you,” he says, but he’s not really all that fussed. 

“It’s rubbish, anyway,” Sam says, putting his arms behind his head. “Get off.” 

Mark doesn’t move, “I’m kind of comfortable, actually.” 

“You’re crushing my legs.” 

“I am not, liar.” Sam giggles and tries to wriggle free. “Weak, weak, weak. You’re not going to win, Sam.” Mark still has no idea what game they’re playing. Sam squirms again, which really isn’t too unpleasant until Mark remembers there are cameras right above them. 

Sam says, “No, really, get off me now,” bringing his arms up and pushing at Mark’s chest. He sounds panicked. Mark’s brain tells him to get the hell up, but his arms fly out and grab Sam by the wrists, pinning him back down to the floor. 

“What’s the magic word?” Mark asks, realising all of a sudden how close he is to Sam’s face. 

“Ihateyou?” 

“Wrong!”

“Please?” Sam’s breath smells like sour apple candy. 

“Wrong!”

Mark leans in. Sam’s eyes go wide and his voice is strained, “You’re hurting me.” 

Mark licks his lips, “Wrong.” 

Behind them Helen clears her throat, “Um, boys?” 

Sam takes advantage of the distraction and gets free, pushing Mark backward until he’s the one lying on the floor. Sam jumps up and Mark watches upside down as he stalks off toward the stairs. Mark says, “Hey, Helen!” then turns in the direction of the stairs and yells, “It was _sweet corn!_ ” 

“I hate sweet corn!” Sam yells back before the bathroom door slams shut. 

Mark starts counting the bricks in the wall to his left: one, two, three… and wills his heart to stop beating so fast. 

 

08.

Everything is different in the dark. Distorted. It’s like another reality when Sam’s pressed against him and sighing with contentment as he drifts off to sleep. It’s a bit like everything is slightly blurred around the edges - off kilter - until Mark thinks maybe whatever they do at night doesn’t truly exist as soon as the sun has come up. It’s another level of their friendship, one they don’t really talk about during the day, but it’s soft and it’s theirs, buried under blankets that never smell specifically of either one of them but both of them combined. 

Sam mutters something under his breath, so gentle Mark wonders if he’s imagined it. It sounds a lot like I love you. He wants to ask if that means they can kiss for real now, not just stolen presses of lips against shirts or hair, lost because they’re not really acknowledged as meaning anything more than _maybe, some day. Perhaps._

He says nothing, though, just shifts a little bit closer, runs his hand lightly over the slight curve of Sam’s hipbone. Sam exhales and snuggles back into Mark’s embrace. 

Mark never wants to see the daylight again. 

 

09.

The chilly hand of winter takes a definite hold on the flat. Mark says, “Let’s go to the movies,” through the thick woolen barrier of his scarf. 

Sam shrugs his shoulders beneath a multitude of blankets, not looking _entirely_ convinced. After a while he switches off the television and says, “Sure, okay.”

Sam picks the movie because Mark doesn’t really care what they watch, and if Sam gets bored he’ll turn into an irritatingly fidgety monster. They buy the largest popcorn and the biggest drink so they can share. It’s almost like a date, only Mark has to remind himself that it isn’t really like that at all. The lights go down and the screen glow illuminates Sam’s features. Mark can see him out of the corner of his eye, shoveling handfuls of popcorn into his mouth and watching the adverts intently. 

Sam’s hand creeps over the armrest partway through the movie, slowly, inch by inch. In the dark, where no one can see them, they hold hands with fingers laced together on Mark’s thigh. Sam squeezes, digs his fingertips into Mark’s knuckles. Mark’s heart palpitates, his palm gets all sticky and he wonders if Sam’s notices. They don’t look at each other the entire time and when the movie finishes they release their fingers and talk about the characters and that one stupid scene that didn’t make any sense. There’s popcorn salt on Sam’s cheek, and Mark brushes it off without thinking. 

Sam says, “Thanks, mate,” like everything’s okay, goofy grin plastered on his face. 

They sing along to the Sugarbabes on the ride home and Sam dances in the passenger seat, all jazz hands and arm waving. They get home and change into their pajamas, awkwardly and obviously avoiding watching each other as they do. They snuggle up on their respective lazy boys and drink hot chocolates in front of the telly until close to 11pm. They don’t talk about the hand holding, as if it never happened, as if it were just _something they would do._ Sam falls asleep with a cup in his hand and Mark has to gently shake him awake before he spills cocoa all over himself. Mark wonders, guiding Sam by the shoulders toward the bedroom, how long he can live like this. On the edge of everything he’s ever wanted from the only person he feels like he could ever spend the rest of his life with. The thought alone makes him feel young and stupidly naive, but even when he’s cringing and trying to push the idea aside, it’s still the truth. And, he realizes, watching Sam stumble dopily up the ladder to his bed, he’s clinging to it with every single fiber of his being. 

10\. 

They both go home for Christmas. It’s only a few days but Mark can feel the pressure building, the absolute, crazy-making need to hear Sam’s voice. His sister tells him he looks distracted and his grandparents tell him he’s far too thin, pushing bowls of potatoes and thick yellow custard toward him during dinner. He picks up the phone a few times, gets halfway through dialing Sam’s parents house and hangs up. 

He’s not really paying attention after Christmas dinner when his grandmother starts laughing, “…and he’s glowing like someone who’s in love, look, his cheeks have gone all pink.” 

There’s an uncomfortable lull in the conversation. Mark says, “Huh?”, and his sister says, “He doesn’t have time for a girlfriend, he spends all his time with Sam.” His grandmother waves her hand dismissively, like that hasn’t got a thing to do with it, and lets him know that as soon as they’re ready Mark should bring his new lady friend home to meet the family. Mark is totally confused. 

When he looks at his sister her eyes are wide and disbelieving and he replays the conversation in his head - he can feel her mentally connecting the dots. It’s so painful he wishes he could sink back into the sofa and disappear. His grandmother keeps talking, blah blah blah bingo on a Sunday with her good friend Betty, and he’s enormously grateful for the ringing phone in the hallway that has his sister quickly leaving the room. 

Standing in the kitchen washing and re-washing the same cups over and over his sister finally walks in and says, “You’re in love with him, aren’t you?” Mark wonders how long it would take to drown himself in a sink full of dish water. “Does Sam even _know?”_

He loathes her a little bit for being so perceptive. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” his voice wavers tellingly. Mark’s always been good at keeping secrets, but he’s terrible at hiding how he feels. She doesn’t bother trying to push it any further, just looks down at the washcloth in her hand and says, “I think you’d be perfect for each other.” 

Mark thinks, _you’re not the only one,_ and passes her a handful of soapy cutlery, avoiding her glaringly sympathetic gaze. 

10.

Despite the harrowing cold Mark’s had a pretty great day, except for the part where there’s _sawdust in his bed_ and Sam and Ed are laughing hysterically at the doorway. 

“Idiots! I’m not sleeping in that,” he says, trying unsuccessfully to brush some of the wood flakes away. 

Sam’s laughter gets progressively louder until he sounds like he’s hyperventilating with glee. When Mark looks down Ed is gone and Sam’s crouching against the doorframe with his hands over his face, shaking and not making any noise. 

“Sam?” 

Sam glances up, his cheeks rosy, looking as though he might explode, “your _face_!” he blurts out. 

“Right, that’s it!” Mark jumps down from the bunk and Sam, knowing what’s coming, scrambles to his feet and runs away. They chase each other around the house, tripping and tumbling, socks sliding against the wooden floors. Mark falls up the stairs to the sound of Helen calling, “Don’t break anything!” 

There’s no where else to go once they’re up there, so Mark pins Sam to the wall just outside of camera view. Sam’s still laughing, trying hard just to keep from choking on his own breath. Mark means to tickle him, honestly means just to rough him up a bit for being such a tosser. He holds Sam’s arms above his head because he’s just that much taller, stares at him and doesn’t really know what to do next. Sam stops laughing and swallows so hard Mark can hear his throat contract. 

People always comment because apparently they have _symmetry._ Mark doesn’t really understand what that means until Sam’s pressed hard against him, thigh wedged between Mark’s legs like that’s exactly where it’s meant to go, one palm slotted against the curve of his hip, the other against his cheek, lips parted and pressed to his own. Mark’s never felt so connected to anybody in his entire life, like every part of his body is just an extension of Sam’s. 

And maybe there’s a hole in Mark’s chest, something that’s always been there, just the right size for Sam to fit inside. He likes to think of it as if God opened up a puzzle box and scattered the pieces all over the country, just to see if they’d find each other again. It’s a pretty cliché metaphor, and he’s tried to explain it to Sam once or twice but it never quite comes out sounding as meaningful as it does in his head. 

(Sam scrunches up his face, like he’s trying really hard to understand. “You make me feel complete?” he says after a while and Mark rolls his eyes.

“That’s what I was trying to get at, yeah.” 

Sam’s eyes are soft, not at all judging when he throws a pillow at Mark’s head, “Then why didn’t you just say that, you rambling twit.” 

“I didn’t want to sound like a girl!” 

“Well you did anyway,” Sam has the decency to sound apologetic. 

Mark throws the pillow back and Sam catches it, stares down at it in his lap for a bit, brow furrowed like he’s contemplating something quite significant. Mark laughs. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep that up, mate.”

Sam sounds a bit sad when he finally speaks up, “You’re the best friend I’ve ever had.”)

Sam’s teeth graze Mark’s neck and he wishes he didn’t feel so much like passing out. Ed yells out, “Have you killed each other yet?” and they jump apart like they’ve caught fire. 

There’s a long stretching silence, followed by the sound of footsteps on the landing. Mark replies, “Sam’s going to change my sheets!” He can hear Helen laughing. Sam looks torn between a scowl and a smile. 

Mark whispers, “This’d be easier if you were a girl.” Although, really, it wouldn't at all, and Sam mutters something about the box of wigs and dresses in the cupboard _if you’re into that kind of thing,_ escaping down the stairwell before Mark can formulate a coherent reply. 

11.

They don’t talk for a whole day. Sam sits on the top step outside the kitchen door, only the curve of his back visible when Mark walks past. Helen says, “Did you have a fight?” eyes darting meaningfully toward the door, and Mark doesn’t know what to say. He shrugs and she looks genuinely concerned, like the world might break apart at any moment. He spends hours planning what he’s going to say when the unavoidable confrontation comes around: _It was a mistake, a misunderstanding. I think Helen drugged my scrambled eggs._

In the end Sam finds him in the bedroom, because there aren’t very many places for Mark to hide and he’s sick of sitting upstairs staring at the bare walls while Sam lords over the living room. He pushes Mark against the cupboard door, fists hands into his hair and Mark can’t think of a single goddamn word to say. 

Sam whispers, “I want,” against Mark’s chin and Mark doesn’t even bother letting him finish, just says, “Thank God,” as well as he can against Sam’s mouth, leaning forward to press their lips together. 

12.

Sam kisses like it’s an emergency. He arches clumsily away from the bed as Mark presses forward; gasping again and again like it’s all such a big surprise. Mark pulls back, shucks his t-shirt and, still on his back, Sam tries to do the same. His head gets stuck in the collar. He wiggles about trying to get free, admitting defeat with a soft, “Help?” 

There’s an awkward moment, once they’re both partway to naked, in which neither of them has any idea where to put their hands.

Sam whacks his forearm on the bars surrounding the bunk and whimpers in pain. His hushed laughter is ragged against Mark’s ear, “I thought this would be easier.” Mark wonders what part of trying to have sex on a smaller-than-single sized bunk bed seemed easy. 

Mark can’t seem to think anything other than, _Yes, Yes,_ over and over again with fingertips digging into his spine and a cramp starting in his left leg. The bed wobbles slightly and he groans; visions of their tragic-bunk-accident deaths on front pages of newspapers everywhere. They both go still and Sam’s laughter is edged with nervousness, hand across his mouth to try and minimize the sound. And really, they should have thought this through a little better. Sam slides one hand down the back of Mark’s jeans, uses the other to pull his head forward into another frantic kiss. The bed jiggles again and this time Mark can’t even make himself care, he just figures at least he’ll die happy.

13.

Helen figures them out pretty quickly, intercepting the new tension between them like a trained professional. She corners them in the bedroom when they’re most definitely not practicing for the China Town challenge. “Don’t ruin your careers,” she says, and Mark almost says _Sam_ is _my career_ but thinks better of it (she’s pretty scary and looks as though her right arm could pack a mean punch.) And in a round about way, he supposes that’s probably what she meant, anyway: _Don’t break each others hearts._

Ed figures it out when he walks in on them snogging on the couch. He says, “Ahhh!” and then, “my eyes!” He walks out of the room, then back in again, points at them accusingly and says, “I _knew_ it!” 

 

14

Sam says, “We should have done this ages ago,” grinning up at the spring sunlight that’s coming in through the open doorway and shining down onto where they’re lying on the floor. “That one there looks like [Mr. Blobby](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mr_blobby),” he points at a big cluster of nothing-looking cloud. 

“That’s cheating! You’re such a cheater,” Mark squints up through the gap between the buildings, trying to make out discernible patterns in the cloud formations. He points, “That one looks like Ed’s face in the morning.” There’s a grunt from the other side of the room. 

Sam laughs, hand sliding into Mark’s so snugly he’s almost certain he hears it click into place. Sam turns his head to the side, stares at him until he follows suit. He says, “Hello.” 

“Hi,” Mark replies. He can feel their heartbeats thudding in time where their fingers connect. 

Sam narrows his eyes, “You’ve got cookie crumbs all over your face.” 

Mark closes his eyes and watches the pinkish-red behind his lids for a while. Sam’s foot falls sideways to _taptaptap_ against his own. Mark wants to tell him how he never wants them to get old; how he’s scared it will all go wrong. He wants to say that he hopes they stay like this – inseparable – forever. He wants desperately to say _I love you._

Instead, he opens his eyes to a world that’s tinged slightly with blue and Sam leaning over him, toothy grin inches away from his face. Mark says, “I think I can see your brain from here,” and Sam laughs, collapsing onto his chest and shielding his nose with his hand. Mark decides Sam probably knows how he feels, anyway, and with his cheek resting over Mark's heart he lets out a deep, shuddering sigh that sounds a lot like _I love you, too._


End file.
